Fallen
by Chantal
Summary: Christine awakens in a strange room and seeks out her Angel, though she will discover that he is not what he seems. LerouxKay based. Rated for some swearing and disturbing content.


**Fallen**

_by T. Tran, 2005_

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera and I'm not making money off of this fic in any way shape or form. There I said it, now I'm done. Go read. _

Based primarily on Leroux and Kay

Revised July 4, 2005

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Music, exquisite and sublime, gradually infiltrated the shadows of my dreams, consciousness reclaiming my reluctant attention as the extraordinary notes wafted through the air. My eyes opened tentatively, slightly dazzled by the stark whiteness of the bedclothes upon which I reclined. Stretching luxuriously, I basked in the radiant strains of the unseen passion of the pipe organ that had awoken me.

Then the harshness of reality struck me.

This was certainly not my bed in the Opera dormitories, nor my room at the flat where Mama Valarius lived. Tensing, I flung myself upright upon the soft mattress, clutching the snowy-white cover to my body and half expecting, in my sudden terror, to see a stranger beside me.

To my relief, there was no one.

Looking around the room, I found it to be far nicer than the meager luxuries of my usual surroundings. Louis-Philippe style furniture in dark polished mahogany and white embroidery and laces made up the decor, dimly lit by a single oil lamp on a vanity next to the bed. All in all, it seemed a very comfortable, even cozy residence - despite the unsettling fact that I could not find a window or door from which I would be able to discern my location.

I was trapped.

Hurling myself from the bed, and noticing with some relief that I was still garbed in the same white dressing gown and undergarments I had worn last night after my performance, I began to pace about the room, trying to gather my thoughts and assess my predicament and ignoring the lushness of the pale rug beneath my bare feet. The last thing I could remember was being in my room, conversing with my Angel, begging Him to let me look upon His beautiful face as a reward for my triumph at the Gala. Then, my memories became hazy, uncertain. . . vague memories of darkness and water. And music.

Oh how I wish my Angel of Music were here with me. Even the sound of His voice would be enough to comfort me, and perhaps he could even free me from this mysterious room.

My eyes then fell upon a single perfect red rose, it's stem secured with a silky black ribbon, lying on the vanity. I gasped slightly, recalling how my Angel had left similar delicate blooms for me, placing them unseen in my dressing room. What did this mean? Was my heavenly guardian even now somewhere near?

"Angel?" I pleaded, quietly, praying I would earn a response.

There was none.

"Angel, please, help me!" I screamed this time, panic mounting. Again and again I entreated the heavens to send me my beloved Angel, vainly trying to drown out the music that had awoken me. Music that had transformed from a soothing and gentle melody into a fiery, passionate auditory depiction of hell in my mind.

Unconsciously I had begun to drag my hands along the wall, frantically, feeling for something, anything, that could possibly be an escape route. Tears welled up in my eyes. Was this my wretched fate? To be forever imprisoned with some unknown madman - for God knows what immoral purpose? Forgotten and forsaken?

And yet that terrible music raged on, furious in its strange, discordant beauty. It permeated my mind, my thoughts, my soul - driving me to madness. I was about to seize the pair of scissors that lay on the little vanity, to spare myself from an eternity of this hell, when my fingertips brushed across something, a hidden latch or trigger, and the section of wall I had been leaning against gave way, spilling me ungracefully stumbling out into the darkness beyond with a soft cry of surprise, nearly falling to the floor in my unbalanced state.

As before the music continued its relentless assault upon my confused senses, even as my eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom of my new surroundings, barely illuminated by the tiny oil lamp from the bedroom behind me. And yet even that comforting slice of light shrank and vanished as the hidden door silently retreated and shut me out of that gilded birdcage from whence I had come.

Ensconced in blackness as I was, with a trembling hand I reached out in front of me to try and establish my bearings. My fingertips latched onto the thick, substantial velvet of a heavy drape that I slowly pulled aside, my spirits lightening ever so slightly as a narrow beam of brightness grew along it edges.

My efforts revealed a rather expensively furnished, and normal looking drawing room. A fire blazed beneath the carved black marble mantlepiece and comfortable-looking chairs were arranged before it. There were books and small trinkets scattered tastefully here and there and the prevailing colors were gold and a deep burgundy red.

And yet I still could not see the source of that violent music, even though it was much louder now than before.

But my eyes were drawn to a large golden-framed painting above the fireplace. It was an exquisitely rendered oil portrait of a beautiful young woman.

It was me.

I gasped and backed away, nearly tripping over a fine walnut table in my haste. Looking down at the offending piece of furniture, I saw, to my horror, a shimmering crystal vase filled with flawless red roses - all with black ribbons tied about their stems.

"Angel?" I asked timidly, though I knew with growing dread that something other than my divine benefactor was at work here.

Confused and bewildered, I turned away from that tableaux and contemplated the outskirts of the chamber. Partially concealed behind a black drape, I saw the tell-tale glint of the light off a black door that nearly blended into the shadows as well.

The music was coming from that door. That insatiable, inexorable cacophony of chords, melodies, harmonies, all twisted and arranged into an invisible being that pulled me towards it, irresistibly, placing my trembling hand upon the polished doorknob.

I ignored the leering brass skull design of the knob.

With a turn and a push, I found myself ushered into the flickering semi-darkness of a room filled with the glowing stars of lit candles and completely eclipsed by the very heart of that astonishing music.

My gaze fell upon the back of a man seated at the keys of an incredible pipe organ whose upper reaches disappeared into the shadows above our heads. It was he who was generating that fantastical, unique music, his floor length black silk robe, magnificently embroidered with all manners of dragons and cherry blossoms of the Orient, rustling through the air at his every movement. At one point he turned his head to the side slightly and my breath caught in my throat.

He was wearing a smooth black mask that concealed his entire face except for his lower lip and chin, which were pale, as though he were ill or had not seen the sun in many years.

Thankfully he did not see me and turned back to his music, turning heavy pages of parchment, covered in blood-red notation, with a passion that matched his playing.

It was now that the vague memories I had had earlier resurfaced and I recalled being beckoned by my Angel's voice after the Gala, pulled into a world of shadows yet still faithfully following His ethereally beautiful voice, bewitched and unwilling to break free.

Perhaps this . . . being before me was my Angel?

But why would He wear a mask? Did He fear that His heavenly features would be too much for my mere mortal eyes to behold? But surely I, His devoted pupil, I who had invested all my faith, my obedience, even my very soul to His worship and adoration, deserved at least a glimpse of what had always been concealed to my eyes.

I found myself quietly approaching him, disregarding a warning deep in my mind to leave things be and to let my Angel explain Himself when He was ready.

Surrounded by the glorious music of my Angel, blinded by the intoxicating notes, and goaded on by my own damnable curiosity, I lunged forward and, curling my fingers beneath the edge of the mask, lifted it away.

The resulting crash of notes startled me and I retreated slowly, anticipating the moment when He would turn and reveal His glory to me at last.

The dark figure stood silently, slowly, raising pale, thin hands from the ivory keys to cover its face. Then with a violent sweeping motion, it turned, knocking over the organ bench and lowered its fingers to uncover its face.

I dropped the mask.

That was no face.

Never could I have imagined a creature, a monster, more terrifying than the one that stood before me now. Its eyes, points of flame in the shadows of sunken black sockets. Protruding, twisted cheekbones over which translucent pale skin was stretched. Grotesque cords of muscle, tendon, and veins showed through clearly as thin, bloodless lips pulled back in an anguished scowl to bare white teeth. Worst of all, this thing had no nose, only two small hollow cavities as dark and black as the pits of its eyes and open mouth.

It was a vision I had not had the misfortune to encounter in even the worst of my nightmares. It was something I only ever expected to see in the vaults of an old cemetery. It was here, and alive, and moving towards me with terrible purpose.

"Damn you, Christine!" It screamed, skeletal fingers, tipped with lethal-looking claws reached for me and I stumbled back in horror.

That voice. Distorted, angry, terrible.

Beautiful.

That was my Angel's voice.

Something within me shattered.

Those long fingers seized me by my wrist with a grasp colder than that of a corpse and the monster with my Angel's voice glared down at me from its intimidating height, pulling me closer to its awful visage.

"Why did you have to look? Why?" it questioned me harshly, the light of insanity evident in its eyes and I cried out in fear.

That was my Angel's voice.

"You weren't satisfied just to hear me, were you, Christine! Well look at me, damn you!" The thing continued to rave, not letting me go. "Perhaps you'd like to feel it as well, to make sure that this is real and not another mask!"

And with those terrible words the creature forced my nails into what little flesh remained on its decaying face. I could feel blood on my fingertips and it was that gut-sliding sensation that caused me to finally break free from my trance with a scream and with a tremendous effort wrench myself away from the iron grip of Death.

Turning, looking for the door, I was confronted instead by the magnificence of a polished black coffin lined lavishly with crimson satin. Any blood that had remained my face fled completely and I whimpered in childish panic at the macabre image before moving again - away from the monstrosity I had unleashed in the dark.

Roughly, the creature seized me from behind as I tried to flee, one of its dead hands entwining in the curls of my hair, the other wrapping possessively about my arms and chest, its breath heaving. Turning me to face it, it brought its ruined face close to my own and its terrible glowing eyes seemed to sear my very soul - my soul, damned for thinking that I could love an Angel. Instead I found myself in the arms of a twisted demon, sent to claim me for Hell.

"So, you wanted to see Death, Christine?" the voice that had been my Angel's hissed into my ear, then transformed into a roar, "I will show you Death then!"

I frantically tried to escape the merciless grip when I realized that I was being dragged towards that glistening ebony coffin, but it was no use. I could not hope to escape the iron grasp of this living corpse and I screamed again, in desperation. "Let me go! Please!"

"Never!" And with the terrible finality of that proclamation I felt myself briefly lifted and then flung down into the silky, sanguine caress of the coffin's depths. Before I could make a move to escape that funereal bed, the monster had straddled it, poised above me, talons clinging to either side of the casket. It was glaring at me with a furious intensity and I felt something warm and wet drip onto my face and exposed neck. Only then did I realize that the blood from where it had inflicted wounds on its face by my hands was falling upon me, reminding me of my trespass and I shuddered with regret and fear.

"You can never leave." it gasped, a strange, dangerous emotion creeping into its eyes. "You belong to me now, my dear - you are Death's bride."

And then my heart, my breath, my body, and my mind froze as the demon did the unthinkable.

It shrugged off the rich Oriental robe and flung it away to reveal a pale, emaciated ribcage exposed from beneath a partially open white dress shirt - and began to climb into the coffin with me, over me, closer, and finally I felt the sickening pressure of its long skeletal form along the paralyzed curves of my own. Its clawed hands sought the vulnerable expanse of my throat.

Death's bride. . .

No.

"NO!" I shrieked aloud with all my remaining strength and flailed out wildly with my fingers, seeking the rim of the coffin, trying to shift my body away from beneath the dead weight on top of me. I cried out to God, to the Virgin Mary, to my father, broken, fragmented prayers - anyone and anything to save me from this, but to no avail. The thing was so much stronger than I and easily subdued my struggles, pinning my arms at my sides. And I found that the more I tried to back away from this thing above me the deeper I sank into the casket's luxuriant deathly embrace.

The tears began to flow down my face once more as I prayed I would wake up from this nightmare, that it was all a grotesque dream and I would find myself safe in the Opera dormitories. But subconsciously I knew that this, my inevitable fate, was real, as sure as I could feel each jutting point of bone pressing down against my body, my skin, my flesh . . .

A single cold claw gently touched my cheek and brushed the tears and blood away.

Unwillingly, my vision focused on the horrific face of Death before my own, its unblinking, unnerving gaze fixed upon me, fresh lacerations still bright and glistening with its blood. But instead of the all-consuming rage it had displayed earlier, I could discern a hint of tenderness in the fierce amber depths of his eyes.

"You can never leave," it spoke quietly, possessively, even as I felt both of his cold hands wrap along my neck and collarbone, forcing me to remain staring directly at it. We were nearly touching, and I could feel his stale breath upon my skin as he moved even closer.

I thought I would die if he tried to kiss me.

Cold, thin lips brushed tentatively against my jawbone, then traced down the length of my neck and I gasped as his horrible face bent to settle between the crook of my neck and my hair, sprawled on the coffin's pillow. His bloodied cheek rested against my own and I could feel the red fluid, slick and warm, still seeping out of his icy flesh against me. Slowly, his skeletal arms moved lower to encircle my body, pulling me even closer to him to the point where the chill of his flesh began to penetrate through the layers of clothing that separated us - and deep within, to my shame and disgust, I felt the faintest stirrings of desire as a result of our intimate proximity.

Thankfully he did not notice the flush of my cheeks at this realization and I fought to quell the unwelcome sensation.

"I can never let you leave . . . You wouldn't come back, not now." That lovely voice was tinged with despair and self-hatred and a new shame flooded my veins even as I conveniently pushed aside the fact that he had deceived me and lied to me for months. I had done this to him. I had betrayed his trust.

"You've ruined it all, Christine," he whispered, and I felt his lean frame shudder as he began to cry in silence, clinging to me in desperation.

Slowly his breath steadied and we lay there together, united in silence, darkness, and death.

At length, it might have been moments or hours, he stirred against me and raised himself up on his arms. I held my breath in anticipation of his next move. He gazed down at me sadly for a brief moment then turned away and removed himself from the casket and out of my line of sight. Silently I welcomed the relief from the sudden absence of the pressure of his body and inhaled the fresh air - at least as fresh as it was likely to be in this darkness.

Suddenly the man loomed over me again, reaching down towards me, and I shut my eyes and prepared for, well, whatever he was going to do to me.

"Please, Christine, I will not harm you," the man's voice, still beautiful, entreated gently. "Come with me."

He did not touch me, as I had anticipated, and I slowly opened my eyes and looked up at his face, noticing with some comfort that he had replaced the mask. His eyes still burned behind that black facade and I averted my gaze towards his outstretched hand.

"Unless you wish to stay in the coffin tonight." A subtle hint of humor colored his words and I found myself reaching for his taloned fingers despite my revulsion. I still could not repress a shudder as my hand closed upon his cadaverous skin, even as I sat up and he helped me out of the macabre box in question.

Silently he led me out of that chamber of Death and back into the relative warmth and security of the drawing room, where the fire still crackled merrily, as if unaware of the traumatic events that had unfolded beyond its reach.

The masked man, gentle still, sat me down upon a beautifully furnished chaise lounge.

"Wait here," he commanded quietly.

He then disappeared back into that room and left me alone to contemplate my thoughts. His sudden change of mood, from murderous rage to gentle consideration bemused me greatly. I sensed the passion of a raging storm in him, and at the moment I seemed favored enough to be caught in the peaceful eye of his power.

Despite this, I was still very much afraid of him.

I could never forget his face.

The masked man reappeared a few moments later, carrying a basin of water and some clean washcloths. I couldn't help but notice that he had tidied himself up as well, tended to his dark hair and had donned a fresh white dress shirt, over which he wore a black vest that was perfectly tailored to his lean form, even flattering him. His deadened hands were concealed by tightly fitting black leather gloves. He looked almost - handsome, I admitted to myself with a blush.

He approached me warily, as though he feared I might try to flee again, and then settled himself next to me on the chaise and, after placing the basin on the floor, reached towards me with a dampened towel.

The water was warm yet refreshing as he timidly blotted away the dried tears and blood that had accumulated on my face and neck, and I found myself closing my eyes to savor the cleansing feel of it. I felt a light touch of leather against my skin and opened my eyes once more as he turned my face towards his so that he could reach more of the stains. A look of quiet concentration had settled in his fiery gaze as he worked.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked suddenly, grave concern weighing heavily in his voice.

"A little," I replied simply. For it was true, as much as he had screamed at and frightened me, he had done no real harm to my body.

"I am sorry for that, child," he replied sincerely.

A moment of silence, and he finished removing the last traces of filth from my face and hair. He leaned back then, considering me in the firelight. Then, sighing, he let the cloth drop into the basin below and stood, turning his back to me and gazing into the flames behind the grate. Again it struck me just how tall he was and how his thin figure even appeared strangely elegant silhouetted in black as it was against the light. His stance possessed a proud yet weary dignity and it was with a twinge of my heart that I realized the source of his pain.

It was no wonder that he had chosen to hide himself away in solitude and shadows rather than face the prying eyes of humankind.

"If you are not an Angel," I began haltingly, and continued as he did not move, "what am I to call you?"

He did not answer for some time and I began to fear that I had offended him but at last he exhaled and breathed. "Erik. My name is Erik."

"Erik," I repeated softly. The name suited him. I knew enough of my Scandinavian heritage to remember that the name represented strength and power.

Looking up at him again I could not help but feel my gaze be drawn to that flawless black mask.

A mask.

"You're the Phantom of the Opera," I gasped in dawning realization and awe.

At this he turned and regarded me fully, an ironic little smile curving his pale lips.

"At your service, Mademoiselle Daae," was his eventual reply as he afforded me a bow of formality.

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_Okaaay - so my beta tells me that she'll kill me if I don't make this a continuing phic instead of a one-shot like I intended. So, what do you think? ;)_


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